No Eternity?
by Silverneko9lives0
Summary: Cain and Jizabel meet in a bar late one winter evening unexpectedly. After a few drinks, the brothers get into a conversation on suffering and theodicy. Written for a theology class. Don't like it? Don't read it. OOC and drunkenness.


_**NO ENTERNITY?**_

_**The Debate of Suffering and Theodicy**_

_Cain Hargreaves is supposed to go a party thrown by his relatives. Instead, he escapes to a pub and encounters someone in which they discuss two very heavy topics. It doesn't help that it's his sadistic brother, does it?_

_Written for my theology class. Don't like theology or Christianity? Fine. Don't read. _

_For those who don't know: theodicy are a group of theories meant to plead God's innocence on the subject of suffering and why there is pain in the world._

I stepped out of the carriage and walked into the pub to escape the winter chill. It's full. Entirely occupied.

I'm lead to sit in the back, forced to share a table with a man whose face is covered by the darkness that suffocates one tiny stub of a candle that flickers and smokes dangerously.

He's hunched over, his right hand is moving vigorously from left to right in a tidy, neat script. His left hand holds his head up, furthering obstructing my view of his face.

"Just a pint of ale for now," I say to the barmaid, taking off my overcoat. I turn to my table-mate. "I hope you don't mind?"

"Not at all, he answers, his hand never stopping. I bit my lip and fiddle with my cuffs. I try to figure out who he is or at least get an idea of his profession.

His hair is silvery in the light. His hands are smooth, small, and quick. His shoulders are broad, covered by a white shirt and a brown vest. A black or grey coat is cast aside next to him. A bowler hat rests on top of it.

"Blast this light!" he curses, setting his fountain pen down and waving for the barmaid. He stops and looks at me. I still can't see his face well enough, though I see the glint of round spectacles on his face. "You don't mind more light, do you?"

I assure him: "Not at all."

The man called the maid. She held up a finger, promising a minute. The man sighed. "Service is slow tonight."

"No thanks to the amount of customers," I add, unable to stop grinning. _I like this guy_. I see a glimmer of ice blue eyes twinkle at me behind his glasses.

"I suppose your right."

"Is it usually this busy?" I ask. "I rarely come."

The man points out into the crowd and I see a pretty young blonde, about my age, setting down a pitcher of ale. "New barmaid," he said. "The prettier they are, the more customers come in."

"She's definitely beautiful."

The man grins. "You think so, do you?"

"You don't?"

The man grins wider. I can see the gleam of his white teeth. "I've been here time to time. These girls come and go. The prettier ones either have to leave because these rowdy barbarians get a little friendly; or they find a man who's got some genteel quality and are lucky enough to make a match. Which do you think is more likely?"

"That first option of yours," I said.

"A scholar, I see."

I blush. I've never thought of myself as scholarly. "I've had decent tutors."

The maid comes. "Sorry about that, gents," she said, setting down my drink. "What can I do for you, sir?" she asks my table-mate.

"Another candle," he said. He presses a coin in her hand and she leaves. "Tutors are all and good, but if the student isn't determined to succeed, then the effort of the tutor is wasted."

"I suppose so," I mumble into my cup. He couldn't have heard me even if it was quiet. I set the cup down. "Are you a professor?"

"No," he said, "but your close. I'm a biologist and a surgeon."

The first thing that pops into my mind, after hearing his dual-profession, is the image of my older brother Jizabel Disraeli. I shiver and take another long dreg from the cup. The ale burns my throat and I cough.

"Careful drinking that stuff too fast. Are you unable to drink much?"

"I drink. Mostly wine. Sometimes ale, but not often." I wish I could take the words back now that I said them. I feel as though I made myself sound like a fop. I hear him chuckling and I know I shouldn't have admitted that I don't drink ale often.

"You're not the usual crowd that come here, are you?"

"I'm an Earl," I admit, unsure why I feel shame at my title.

"As young as you are? You couldn't be fifteen."

"I'm seventeen."

"Pardon me," the man said. He studies me behind his round spectacles. "You wouldn't happen to be Cain Hargreaves, would you?"

"I am. Forgive me for not telling you my name sooner."

"I haven't introduced myself yet," he said. "But you know me better than you believe right now. When we get a new candle, you'll see for yourself." His saying this gave me an idea of his identity anyway. And I hoped I was wrong. "Shouldn't you be at some fancy party at your relatives?"

"I despise them," I hiss, careful about my drinking. "They're all pompous and egotistical. Not that I'm _not_, but they're worse than me!" And off I go rambling about my family's faults and how obsessed they are with appearances and how they expect me to be _just like my father_!

And then I'm talking about my father! I say things that only my manservant Riff and I know and even things that Riff has not heard of because I was too afraid to say them to him.

All the while, the man listens, hands folded. He breaks his concentration from me only once to take the candle from the nervous maid and to order some onion soup for the both of us. He lights the candle while I continue ranting.

"And damn all God's green Earth," I shout, banging the now empty mug of ale on the table, "that I should _ever _be like that…that…"

"_Haymarket Hector_?"

I wave my hand. I was trying to think of something worse. But it wasn't _untrue_. "You could say that."

"Trust me, you're not the only one around here who has a terrible parent," he said, tapping the back of his fountain pen against the paper. "I, too, have had some bad experiences with my father."

"He didn't whip you like mine did, I'll bet," I grumble, slumping in my seat. It's not "gentlemanly" and certainly not something a noble should do, but who's going to lecture me here?

"On the contrary," the doctor said. "He did. I've got the scars to prove it."

Numbness overtakes me. My own scars on my back ache. "Really?"

"With a scourge." The light illuminates our small cubicle, hidden from the rest of the group. Jizabel raises an eyebrow. "Well, here we are. Do tell, Cain, how does it feel spilling all your secrets to your hated big brother?"

How indeed! I shrink back, scowling like a child. I don't really hate Jizabel, but he's never actually given me a reason to like him. Especially since he's out to kill me! "If there is a God, he hates me," I moan.

"I like to think he doesn't exist," Jizabel said. The maid returned and set down the long awaited soup. She asked if we wanted more ale and we both gave affirmative. "If so, why would either of us have to suffer, eh?"

I only half agree. Our sister, Mary Weather, believes in God, despite our hardship. If God does exist, then there is one thing I can be thankful for: Mary never having to meet our father. "What if He does exist?" I ask quietly, spooning soup into my mouth. "Mary Weather really believes in him."

"Well, who said we have to be like a ten-year-old girl who's lived her life carefree."

"She hasn't lived life carefree," I snap. "She lost her mother due to a stalker! She and I both have suffered a lot of hardship and a lot of pain because of _you _and Father! You tried to kill her!"

"It was to get to you. I'm not obliged as you are to protect her or be a brother to her. Neither of you are really my siblings. We're all half-siblings."

"And yet the two of _us_," I emphasize us, glaring pointedly at Jizabel, "have suffered at father's hands equally."

"And you still believe that perhaps there is a God out there? A God who would allow the two of us to be beaten down like dogs by Father? Tell me, Cain, what sort of God is that?" I've never seen Jizabel angry. At least not like this.

He takes his own mug of ale and takes a couple large gulps. I know I should be repulsed at how unsavory a display he makes, but I can't help but sort of admire it of him. "What good would is a god that claims to be all loving and all powerful and yet won't stop our father from abusing us?" He's a little calmer, but not much. He's not yelling at least. "I'd bet that _lugger_ you got on your ear that God's just some fairy tale people came up with the create order and keep their brats in line."

My hand instantly goes up to my ear and I rub my fingers against my simple stud jewel earring. "You're not serious are you? I don't even know if I believe in God. And even if I did, I'm not about to defend him against you or anyone! I'm on your side in this debate." While I talk, Jizabel slurps his soup. I can't tell if he's just glaring at me or thinking.

"Pity. I like that earring."

"I can tell you which jeweler to go to," I snap, waving the subject away. "More importantly, why are you with Father's group, then, if you hate him so much?"

Jizabel didn't answer right away, taking another sip of ale. "Because where else can I go? It's not safe anywhere. Even if I were to run away to the mainland or to, say, America or India, who's to say that Father won't find me eventually; or you, for that matter. What guarantee can you give? Sure, there are people who somehow do survive a friendship with you, but how many are _they_ anyway?"

"Well, there'd be more if you and Father didn't want to do them all in!" I shout, banging my hand on the table. Heads turn, but we don't pay attention to them. "Suffering happens, Jizabel! What are we to do about it? Is there a reason for it? Who's to say? Maybe this is all some other person's game. Their own creative work that is distributed to other people in some other realm and it's not ours to say whether there is a reason to our suffering or not!"

"Quite a farfetched idea, don't you think, Cain?" Jizabel said, finishing his soup. "That we aren't even in control, and that someone else is the puppeteer and that someone might not actually be God. Let's say for a moment, that you're theory is true and we're not real people," Jizabel waves the spoon around in gestures.

"First, that person is, perhaps, playing god and we're their creation. But then why are we suffering? Why do we have to suffer if such a person can make a world where no suffering exists whatsoever? Why would they allow us to suffer? Why do we have to be _pidgeons_?"

I try to think about this, but the questions almost fly over my head. It doesn't help that Jizabel may be slightly drunk, I expect; hence using more slang than I've ever heard him say. "Well…because…because…they let us for some reason. I mean…it's like a book or a play, isn't it? The writer allows their creations to suffer because…for some reason…I don't know."

"They let the creations suffer because either they have a reason for their suffering _or_ it's just 'good business.' They aren't writing to let their creatures go through life without trial. People want to read a story or see a play they can relate to. If the story of a young, delinquent count who was abused by his father fits the bill, then it will happen. God forbid little Cain not get his whipping tonight!"

He's definitely drunk…and barking mad. Not that I didn't know he wasn't _mad_, but this is not what I had expected.

Still, his words stung and I hastily blink back the tears that threaten to fall. I'm not going to cry now because this _bludger_ insulted me while _pissed_. I'd rather he stick his scalpel into my neck and gouge out my eyes like he really wants.

"So your saying that this is all for God's entertainment? Assuming He exists."

"Got any better ideas?" Jizabel asks, grabbing the mug of ale again. I half reach out for it to stop him, but stop myself. If he's this bad drunk, I don't want to see him when he's drunk and homicidal.

"Rather pessimistic, isn't it?" I say. "Maybe I'm just sentimental or something, but…I get the feeling that that's not the case at all."

"Oh? And what 'feeling' do you have? Enlighten me?"

I can't. It's not a feeling I can put to words. Does God exist? Is God just some bastard who laughed while I cried myself to sleep as a child? If not, does he even exist? I've never really gone to church and not many people I know claim to really be religious. Yet still, something in my mind tells me that Jizabel is wrong. That in the heat of the moment, I sparked a conversation with my usually sociopathic older brother that could take days, months, _years_ to complete."

Someone walks up to us and the boy's shoulders slump. "_Pissed_ again, is he?" Jizabel's young assistant asks.

"We're busy, Cassian," Jizabel snarled. "You still haven't answered my question, Cain."

"I don't have an answer."

"I thought so."

"An answer to what?" Cassian asked.

"My question," Jizabel clarified.

"We were talking and it somehow got to a debate about suffering," I clarify. Cassian shook his head. "Maybe you could help us come to an answer?"

"Look, Earl, I've lived thirty-five years and I'm still trying to figure that out." Did he just say he's _thirty-five_? "All I can say is that there's no answer that works. To each his own I suppose." Cassian pulls Jizabel out of the seat. "Gather his things for me will you? I'll call a cab." I obediently do so and leave payment for the food along with a tip. I squeeze out of the pub and find them standing in the snow.

Jizabel leans against the wall, breathing heavily, but steadily.

I hand Cassian the papers and carefully approach my brother with the coat. He's shivering. I place the coat over his shoulders. "Thanks," he mumbles, tightening it around his shoulders. I put the bowler hat on his head and it clings to his head awkwardly. I approach Cassian and help him flag down a hansom cab.

"You really think there's no answer?"

"Positive. I told you. I've been trying to figure it out myself. No answer. Nothing. If you find one, let me know."

I help Jizabel into the cab and they leave me in the snow. I shiver and walk further into the busier area of the street. A few carolers are singing _O Come, O Come Emmanuel_ as I walk by, hoping to find another cab and go home.

Bibliography

Carlson, Marc, Ciryl Connolly, and David Crowhurst. _British Slang-Lower Class and Underworld 19th Century_. N.p., 26 Jan. 1994. Web. 16 Nov. 2010. .net/Sophie/Castle/victorian_.

_Christmas Carols_. , 2004. Web. 16 Nov. 2010.


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